To the sources of the life

To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. Waltzing between the claws of death. The heart fired with the idea to bathe. Plunging as of the insane ones. In scintillating water recovering of gold. Our dreams syphilitics to be itself knocked with the fissured doors of our infirmities. Charged with so many brittlenesses. So often tested. With the slow rhythm of the musical box which made us dance. Much further that the summer.  On the worn floor of a ground where we turn since so a long time in round. To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. Fleeing the mechanical daily newspaper of the stereotyped waltz which we repeat. Without another project that of knowing to trample it eyes in the abandonment. With the listening of the thunder of this war which mud inside. That we know if little to project outside. Reinforcing the yoke to be exploded. To release itself from all these uselessnesss which immured us. Forever, for good. To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. The head elsewhere, drunk of happiness. In order to arrive per hour. For, the first time. Able to divide together the honey and the blood of our faith. Deprived of all that kills to us. Energy naked. Feet in the ground, the hands full of mud, the tears running. Of this hatred rises to have lost such an amount of time. To react, act, to flee. Leaving without regret behind us the field strewn with the corpse of our lapses of memory. Of which most extremely. That which bites. Fire curving the iron of our lives. This faculty to forget the identity of what we were. The breathing of the roots of our passions. To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. Parties with the reason. Single not to turn out more in badly. To seek in the labyrinth this exit which will not come. And that finally we do not want. To have understood well too late that we loved. Without another concession to remain faithful to our union.